


Rising

by PenguinofProse



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Episode: s04e06 We Will Rise, F/M, Fluff, Protectiveness, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:35:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24984676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PenguinofProse/pseuds/PenguinofProse
Summary: Bellamy opens the body bag in "We Will Rise" to find Clarke unconscious. Shameless fluff and protectiveness and all other good things.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 13
Kudos: 138





	Rising

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome to a request for "Bellamy opens the body bag in 'We Will Rise' and it's Clarke". Happy reading!

Bellamy can't help but feel that he should have learnt his lesson by now.

Every time he leaves Clarke alone, it seems something goes wrong. Every time he leaves her alone, he regrets it. And so it is that, now, he is driving a rover at pace along a river bank and praying that there is a harmless explanation for the fact she is not picking up the radio.

There isn't a harmless explanation, it turns out.

The beach where he last saw the truck is bare, messy tyre tracks scraping through the sand. There is no sign at all of Clarke, but all the same he jumps down from the rover to scour the site for clues as to where she might be.

He's never leaving her alone again.

He focuses carefully on that thought, as he keeps scanning the beach for signs. It seems like a more useful thought than wondering whether she's dead, whether or not they will actually get a future in which he sticks by her side.

Then he sees it. There, in the shallows, partially submerged, is a bag.

A bag that looks just the right size for a body.

Swallowing down his rising nausea, he runs towards it. There is no sense in waiting around – if this is Clarke's dead body, she will still be dead whether he waits a lifetime to face it or gets on and learns the truth now. He drags the bag from the water, hauls it up onto the sand. Grabs a knife, and prepares to face the music.

He can't do it. He can't. What if it's Clarke? What if -?

No. He has to. He takes a deep breath, hardens his resolve, and slits the bag.

It is Clarke. It's Clarke, and he cannot entirely believe it. That's really her – her forehead, streaked with blood. Her hair, matted and soaked from being half-submerged in the river. Her face, unnaturally still. Her lips, slack, not twisted into that half-smile, half-frown she is supposed to wear.

He drops to his knees in the sand, searching her face frantically for any sign of life. She can't be dead. He won't allow it.

He's not altogether sure how she could be alive, though, after that. After that time in the river, and with a head injury and a sizeable stab wound in her side.

Thoroughly frantic, he crouches over her. That's when he sees it – she's still breathing, her chest rising and falling ever so slightly with life. He can't sigh in relief just yet, though. Her breaths are shallow, and when he presses a gentle hand to her neck, her pulse is weak and sluggish beneath his fingers.

He starts speaking urgently to her, begging her to come back to him. "Clarke? Clarke, can you hear me? Can you wake up for me, Clarke? Come on, Clarke. Clarke."

He sounds like a madman. He knows it – he's repeating her name like some desperate prayer, rubbing his thumb over her cheek, leaning in so close he suspects he's barely leaving her room to breathe.

"Aren't you going to give her the kiss of life?" Roan asks, not quite managing to speak in his usual confident drawl. There's is a definite tone of anxiety creeping in to his voice.

Bellamy doesn't answer. He almost forgot Roan was there, if he's being honest.

"Come on, Clarke. Just keep breathing for me. I'm going to take a look at that stab wound, OK?" He knows that talking to an unconscious patient is probably a sign of insanity, but he's never been much good at thinking straight without Clarke awake and present at his side.

He rips aside the remains of her shirt, and finds blood oozing from the wound. It could be worse, he reckons. She's not bleeding as heavily as he might have feared. He shrugs out of his jacket, wraps it around her as best as he can. That will keep her warm, he hopes. And then he tears a strip from his T shirt and presses it to the wound in her side.

She twitches when he starts applying some pressure to the wound, and he figures that is a good sign.

"Sorry. I bet that hurt, huh? You need to wake up so you can tell me I'm doing this all wrong." He tells her softly.

Roan snorts at that.

Bellamy ignores him, wondering what to try next. He can't do much about a head wound, he decides, and he's already given her his jacket for warmth.

He's not sure what else he can do.

That hurts – it makes him feel utterly powerless. He hates sitting here, useless, at Clarke's side while she is unconscious and fighting for her life. He wishes he had even half of her medical skill right now. If she goes and dies because of his inept first aid he'll never forgive himself.

If she goes and dies she'll be _dead_. That thought hits him very abruptly, a firm blow to the stomach.

He doesn't want to imagine a future where Clarke is dead.

"What are we doing about the fuel?" Roan asks, voice surprisingly gentle.

Right. Yes. Fuel. Mission. There are other things going on here besides Clarke.

"I don't know." He swallows heavily. "I can't leave her."

Roan drops to his heels in the sand at Bellamy's side. "I know. I wouldn't ask you to. But – you know Clarke. She'll be mad if she wakes up and finds out that we let the fuel disappear because we were making a fuss of her."

Bellamy nods. That does sound true, but he doesn't know what to do about it. Still pressing that scrap of his T shirt to her stab wound, he turns to look at Roan and wonders what their next move is.

"Who do you think took it? Trikru?"

"Azgeda." Clarke's croaky voice responds.

Bellamy's gaze snaps back to her face. He's pretty sure that one hoarse word was the best thing he's ever heard. She's awake, eyes fluttering, mouth fixed in a pained grimace.

And, being Clarke, she is already half way to sitting up.

"You're OK, Clarke. Don't try to move."

She huffs a little, falling back against the sodden canvas on the sand. "Get the med kit." She orders through her gritted teeth.

It is Roan who rushes to the rover to follow that order, to Bellamy's surprise. It seems he's not the only person in the world who likes Clarke better alive. Bellamy, meanwhile, stays crouched at her side, thumb gently rubbing her cheek.

"You're going to be OK." He tells her, as much to reassure himself as anything else. "We'll get you patched up."

"We need to go after the fuel." She argues right back at him.

"Yeah. We will. But we need to see to you first." He pauses, wondering whether it is wise to encourage her to keep trying to talk. But his curiosity wins out, in the end. And Clarke would never forgive him if he kept quiet on her account. "What happened?"

"Azgeda. They tried to get me to drive the truck for them. Had a knife to my throat. I refused."

"So they hit you on the head and left you in a bag in the river." Bellamy concludes, aghast.

"Hey, I'm fine. I'll be OK." She tells him with the ghost of a smile.

"Aren't I supposed to be the one comforting you?" He asks her, trying and failing to sound lighthearted.

She smiles a little more truly at that, even through the pain. Her eyes still look right, to Bellamy's relief. They still hold all of the fire and perceptiveness he associates with Clarke.

Of course, it is while Bellamy is gazing into Clarke's eyes that Roan returns, with a med kit and a staged cough.

Bellamy jerks his hand away from Clarke's face and reaches for the med kit.

"Pass it here." Clarke demands.

Bellamy frowns. "No. You can't do it _yourself_ , Clarke. You've been stabbed."

"I know. That's why I need some antiseptic and a threaded needle, _now_." She bites out.

He frowns harder. "Let me." His mother was a seamstress, after all. He's never sewed human flesh before, but how different can it be, really?

"Bellamy -"

" _Please_. You can tell me exactly what to do. But you need to lie still and rest."

She admits defeat, then, and that almost worries him. It's not like Clarke to give in so easily. But then she starts talking him through stitching her wound, and he hasn't the mental capacity to spare a thought for worrying that she's not quite her usual argumentative self. It turns out that stitching human flesh is very different from stitching guard uniforms. And it is worst of all because it is _Clarke_ 's skin that he's patching back together, and every time he stabs the needle into her side she gives a pained gasp that makes his heart do a little distressed hiccup.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He bleats, on about the sixth stitch. He is less than a quarter of the way there, and he already has tears in his eyes from listening to the sound of Clarke in pain.

She grits her teeth and attempts to reassure him. "Don't be. You're doing great. Nearly there."

He is sorely tempted to laugh at that. He's pretty certain that he's supposed to be saying things like that to her. That's how a stab wound normally works, right?

In his defence, he's pretty sure there's nothing normal about threading a needle through the most important person in his world.

By the time the wound is stitched, they are both shaking and crying, and both trying to pretend they are not. Even Roan is looking away, staring at the racing waters with his jaw locked in evident discomfort.

"We need to move." Clarke says what they are all thinking. "We need to go after the fuel."

"You can't move." Bellamy points out.

"We can help her into the back of the rover. You drive, I make sure she doesn't bleed to death." Roan suggests.

Bellamy has never found Roan's cynicism so inappropriate as he does in this moment. The fool cannot seriously be suggesting that he should leave Clarke in the care of someone who would _joke_ about her bleeding out, while he drives after a load of his traitorous men?

"Come on. Let's go." Clarke orders them around, even as she is still lying in that tangle of soaked sacking. "They didn't really know how to drive, so they can't have gotten far."

Roan steps forward at that, arms outstretched as if to help Clarke towards the rover.

No. Bellamy's not having that. He crouches and scoops her into his arms as gently as possible, cradling her against his chest.

"I can probably walk." She protests weakly as he stands and starts heading for the rover.

"You don't need to. I've got you."

He sets her gently down in the rover, his jacket still wrapped around her for warmth, the med kit bag serving as an improvised pillow. He watches Roan hop into the back of the rover, sitting down close at her side - a little too close for Bellamy's liking, if he's being honest.

And then he tears his gaze away, and gets into the driver's seat, and gets on with doing his duty.

…...

Recovering the fuel is miraculously easy, in the end. Clarke was right – the Azgeda guards who stole it haven't a clue how to drive. It is no wonder they were keen for Clarke to drive the truck, and left her half-dead when she refused. Sure, they have weapons, and put up a good fight, with Roan shooting a few of his own men. But when the driver panics, and loses what limited grip on operating the truck he ever had, and stalls in the middle of a field, it is all over.

And, miraculously, Clarke is still breathing.

She insists that they carry on to the island. Her mother is there, she reasons, and can offer further medical help as well as anyone left in Arkadia. And anyway, Praimfaya isn't going to sit around and wait just because she got stabbed. The nightblood solution is still a pressing concern.

So it is that they abandon the rover and all three of them make the journey to the island in the truck.

Bellamy is faced with a decision to make, when they arrive. He was supposed to be heading back to Arkadia as soon as he made this delivery, returning the truck to its rightful location and getting back to his guard duties. But he cannot face doing that, not after coming so close to losing Clarke. He needs to stay here and make sure she recovers. He needs to stick to the resolution he made earlier today that he will never leave her alone again.

He needs to tell her he loves her, he suspects.

He figures that's probably the simplest way to articulate his absolute obsession with her wellbeing and constant desire to seek out her company. And it's been coming on for a while – more or less since he first met her, if he's being truly honest – but the end of the world and her injuries today have made him think that maybe he ought to tell her, sooner rather than later.

Roan volunteers to unload the fuel, leaving Bellamy to help Clarke out of the truck. She insists that she can walk now, but he's not altogether convinced. They reach a kind of compromise where she is on her own two feet but he supports her with an arm around her, half hugging her as they shuffle forwards. It takes them a good few minutes to get right to the shore where Emori will soon arrive with the boat.

Of course, Clarke being Clarke, she has something to say.

"I'm fine. Really. You can leave me to it." She swallows. "You can leave for Arkadia – Roan's finished with the fuel."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"I thought you were going back once you dropped us off?" She asks, confused.

"I was." He hesitates, wonders how much to say. "But I don't think I can do that now you've been injured."

"I'm going to be OK."

"I know. I know you are – this time. But I'm tired of worrying about you when we're apart, OK? I think with the world ending and all I'd rather stay here with you."

She looks at him, eyes narrowed, for long seconds. He starts to worry – has he said too much? Is she freaking out? Has he made her uncomfortable? Is she going to reprimand him for failing to follow his orders?

She does nothing of the sort, in the end. She simply leans into him a little more heavily, and whispers her thanks into the breeze.

…...

No one questions Bellamy's presence when he gets to the island. He even goes as far as saying to Abby that he thinks he ought to radio Kane and check it's OK that he's staying, but Abby waves an airy hand and asks him to hold Clarke's hand while she checks her wound, instead.

Well, now. He's not going to ignore a direct order from the former Chancellor.

He knows that's a terrible explanation for his compliance. He's ignored plenty of Abby's orders before now. But he'd rather be holding Clarke's hand than explaining himself to Kane, OK? He's not actually convinced that hand-holding is an essential part of medical care, but Abby is a doctor. If she says it's necessary, who is he to argue?

Clarke seems to think it's necessary as well, squeezing his fingers tightly while Abby removes Bellamy's now rather blood-stained jacket from around Clarke's torso and has a look at the wound.

"Not bad. I'll clean it properly and dress it, but those stitches look good to stay. You did them yourself?" She asks her daughter.

"Bellamy did." Is it his imagination, or does she sound a tiny bit proud?

Abby nods, looking up to offer him a warm smile. "Thank you. She's lucky to have you."

He feels his eyes smart slightly at that. He never really expected Abby's overt approval. Feeling awkward, he just nods a little and carries on circling his thumb over the back of Clarke's hand.

Abby declares Clarke's treatment finished only a couple of minutes later.

"Stay off your feet for a couple of days." She recommends. "You can stay here while Raven and I work on the nightblood. Then we'll start getting you walking again when it's begun healing."

"I can't _stay off my feet_." Clarke protests. "I need to help, Mum. We need to work out how we're going to distribute the serum once you've made it. And then we need to -"

"Your Mum's right." Bellamy murmurs quietly. "You've just had a serious injury. You can save the world sitting down for a couple of days."

"I'm sure Bellamy will be happy to help you get around." Abby adds, with a glance in his direction that he thinks is at least half way to conspiratorial.

Abby leaves, then. With one more admonishment to Clarke about the importance of rest, she hurries off to find Raven.

"I'm sorry." Clarke mutters, visibly uncomfortable. "You never asked to spend the next few days babysitting an invalid. You don't have to stay. You can go back to Arkadia and I can ask Roan to -"

"Roan is not carrying you around for the week." He snaps, jealousy making him short.

"Bellamy -"

"No. If anyone is going to stay here and look after you, it's going to be me."

She looks annoyed, and he doesn't understand why. "Bellamy. I know you think you're my personal bodyguard or something. But I'm not your responsibility. Whatever stupid _duty_ you think you have to protect me, it's not -"

" _Duty_?" He asks, incredulous, voice rising. "You think I'm here out of _duty_?"

"You're tired of worrying about me when we're apart." She repeats his earlier words back at him.

"Not because I think it's my _responsibility_ to protect you." For an intelligent woman, she can be very slow on the uptake when it comes to matters of the heart.

"Then why?"

"Because I love you!" The confession bursts out of him, in circumstances rather different from those he might have wished for.

She gapes at him, an odd, tortured expression on her face. He wonders if her wound is hurting.

"Clarke? Clarke, are you OK?" He asks, panic fast creeping in.

"You love me?" She asks, instead of answering his question.

He nods, brisk, uncomfortable. This isn't going exactly to plan, he thinks. It's not exactly as if he had a plan, but if he did have a plan, it sure as hell wouldn't involve Clarke nearly dying and then looking pained when he finally confessed his feelings.

She's still wearing that odd facial expression, still staring at him.

And then suddenly she's surging upwards to kiss him, pressing her lips against his with a forcefulness that takes him by surprise. Her hand is knitting through his hair, pulling him close against her, and her lips taste like new beginnings, not the end of the world.

He steels himself to pull away before he can start enjoying it too much.

"We shouldn't." He murmurs softly. "You're injured."

"We should." She shoots back. "The world is ending."

He can't argue with that. Curling an arm about her shoulders, he eases her down into a lying position. She's supposed to be resting, after all, so he will have to come to her.

This time, he is the one who makes the move, bending to kiss her as if their lives depend upon it.

…...

They go to watch the rocket take off, late that afternoon.

Clarke wants to be there when Abby leaves – just in case the worst should happen in flight – and Bellamy supposes that it would probably look bad if the two of them just sat around making out all afternoon. They are supposed to be leaders and role models, with a certain amount of responsibility, after all.

To be clear, though, they have basically been making out all afternoon.

"Fancy seeing you two here." Raven greets them with a sharp grin.

"Leave them alone, Raven. Young love is precious." Miller offers jovially, but with a surprisingly sly glance at Jackson as he speaks.

Bellamy tries not to choke on thin air. He wasn't aware that his friend had gone and found happiness on this island, too.

"There you are, Clarke." Abby bustles into the room. "Did you get some rest?"

Raven snorts at that. Miller smirks. Bellamy tries very hard not to look too smug.

"I'm feeling _engergised_." Clarke states, face in a careful straight line.

Bellamy loses it at that, spluttering and coughing as he tries not to laugh too hard in front of all these curious onlookers.

Things move on around them, then. Abby hugs Clarke firmly, then she and Raven prepare for take off. Miller and Jackson are lost in their own conversation.

Bellamy takes the opportunity to whisper into Clarke's ear. "Happiness looks good on you."

Her eyes flick over to his. "You, too. You might want to grab a new T shirt, though. Your abs are on show." He grins. He'd forgotten about that. Giving Clarke his jacket to prevent her dying of hypothermia and ripping strips off his shirt to staunch the flow of blood from her side didn't seem very funny, earlier.

But now almost everything seems worth smiling about.

"You don't sound like you're complaining." He teases.

"I'm not." She swallows loudly. "I love you too. You know that, right? I know I didn't say it back earlier. I'm not good at saying it. But I do. So much."

There are tears glistening in her eyes, as he reaches a comforting arm around her. He knows they're in public, but it doesn't seem to matter. Clarke loves him, and he loves her, and he wants to shout his joy to the heavens.

"Hey, that's OK, Clarke. I love you." He figures he can never say it too many times. "I know that can be scary. But we'll be OK – you and me, together."

She nods, and leans into his side.

He could get used to this, he thinks, as they sit there and watch Raven start the countdown. It's a shame, then, that he hasn't got long to get used to it. Praimfaya is coming, ready or not.

But he's feeling more optimistic about it, now. He's feeling like they will keep on getting back up, no matter how many setbacks try to knock them down. He's feeling like they will always be able to snatch joyful moments like this from the jaws of despair, and like there is always grounds for hope, as long as they're still breathing.

He sits back, cuddling Clarke close into his side, and watches the rocket rise to the heavens.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
